Saturday, August 16, 2014

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

...is my just-purchased, 2011 Honda Insight. It's a half hybrid, only has 36,000 miles after three years, gets 40 in the city and better out, got stellar reviews, has a great Carfax, and it only took four hours of sweating in a sweltering dealership and saying the same thing over and over again whilst listening to harrowing Iraqui War stories (we got to see actual scary wounds! ) before the price I started with was agreed to.

It's a smaller hatchback, but still room for stuff, plus it's 8 years newer than what ive been used to. And frankly, hondas are a little more fun/zoomy than Toyotas. Cross my fingers it's half as good as R2.

Thursday, July 17, 2014

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Here is my friend Robyn on the verge of succumbing to a violent lobster, bent on survival. Her husband did brandish tongs but then fled leaving Robyn -one of the toughest cookies on the planet- to tong Mr. Crazy-ass Lobster to a watery boiling death. Ben and I wept and held each other as the lobster cursed our mothers and perished, screaming. He was delicious. Note how Robyn resembles Dali with her insanified lobster.

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Courtesy of Paul Mende (who started the website with me back in 1994 when we were one of the first thousand sites on the web. The whole freaking web.) I managed to dig up these old pics and docs: me with the "People vs. Simpson" files, and Judge Ito's letter of thanks because, bizarrely enough, the Steps did actually entertain the OJ Simpson jury whilst they were sequestered. It was a very bizarre day marked by its notable complete lack of security. We could have walked in there with all kinds of newspapers and opinions and tape recorders and cameras and no one checked ahead of time. Weird for the high-profile "Trial of the Century." Admittedly, the pictures are technically from NINETEEN years ago, as the trial was a year later. I have seldom seen a more beaten down group of people than the OJ jury.

Monday, May 19, 2014

It has been pointed out that the entire story could be much simplified.

The Ballad of Chip -n- Dale

Let me tell you all a story 'bout these chipmunk scampsThey saved a man who was cavin' in to crampsThey saw him a-squattin' and what did those rodents do?They showed him a place where he safely could poo.

Here I am paying homage to my saviors, Chip -n- Dale. Why at my advanced age do I kneel in public on my graying, doddering knees and fix my blurry vision on the furred spectacles that so many regard as mere afterthoughts to Walt Disney's fantastical birth of characters and technology in the 40s: the minor league World War II era antagonists of the more canonical Pluto and Donald? The goofy, hopping, chattering placenta of Disney's Golden Age?

I will tell you.

I was a younger man once, in a younger time. Unlike today, being fat was shameful. And, unlike today, I wasn't fat. I was a tender slip of a thing: all of 22 years old and 139 pounds soaking wet. Carol was also a tiny slip of a thing. In other words, exactly like she is today. We vacationed in Florida once a long, long time ago. The only two-week vacation of my life, a glorious span spent largely in Daytona, and partially on my hands and knees (but that is a story for another time - reference "I gots to get a present for mah gal!")

However we did do a couple of special things: one, we went to a water park with tubes and slides and the usual stuff that water parks have and had a great day. So great in fact, that we bought matching super micro shorts that were bright blue with a yellow "WaterBoggan!" logo on them. I mean really incredibly tiny shorts. But, as I said, this was a time when men wore tiny shorts and were proud.

I do not mean to insinuate that I ever looked anything like this. However, if you image search for "men in small shorts" all you get are things like this. And much worse. Some of those men in the image search don't even have shorts at all, frankly. Nor do they seem to miss them. They seem relieved that their immense architectures can wag free in the breeze. But, truth be told, these are about the size of the shorts I wore regularly in the 70s. I mean even our high school gym shorts were ultra-micro, so that's all we knew. Anyway, imagine skinny young me in these.

Another thing we did was make our very first visit to Disney World. We drove from the coast to Orlando in our matching WaterBoggan shorts and enjoyed a great, whirlwind day in the Magic Kingdom (this was 1979, before Epcot even opened). Being touristy, and not knowing if we would ever get back there (ha!) at the close of the day we headed to the Disney Main Street area where the shops and goodies are and loaded up on t-shirts and souvenirs. We grabbed a nice haul of Disneyana and got in one of the seemingly endless, long, meandering checkout lines that grow at the end of the day.

As I was admiring my 'angry Donald' shirt and the rest of our booty, I began to feel an uncomfortable and increasingly distressing sensation. Some brand of Disney-chow was working its way through my innards and leaving trails of grief in its wake. While amusing at first, things soon progressed to annoying, and --as is the way with these situations-- swiftly moved to URGENT. I pressed my stack of goods into Carol's hands and told her I would be right back.

Ducking out of the line, I glanced around the store to see --as is Disney's custom-- no restroom in sight. Restrooms are special events in the World, not crammed into mere apothecaries and mercantiles and the like. I would have to discern the nearest one; no easy feat when cramping in the Magic Kingdom.

And I was cramping. As my lower abdominal muscles (which I remember fondly, though I haven't had them for years) seized unremittingly, I began to involuntarily lower myself into a crouch. I knew the WaterBoggan shorts were tiny and insubstantial and could not hold back anything which would lead to public shame. I crouch-dashed from the Disney store in the frantic hopes of spying either a restroom or a knowledgeable employee.

And of course found neither. Now in a full-out mobile squat, I looked around frantically to spy any Disney employee at all. NO ONE?! Until my eye fell upon....

Yes. Chip -n- Dale.

The effervescent chipmunks were the only Disney workers in sight. They frolicked and gamboled with children and adults as I made a hasty, cramping, crouching approach. As I neared them, they became aware of the fiendishly serious man power-squatting toward them. I fancied I saw their fake eyes widen with concern. They towered over me, even though small, as I was now in a full Vietnamese gardener's fetal position. Clutching my stomach, and now sweating profusely with the strain of keeping my foul nether-lid firmly closed, I whispered hoarsely, "Bathroom!"

Here is another Disney fun fact: the costumed characters are not allowed to speak. Under any circumstance, apparently. It's a fireable offense. So the only two people nearby who might help me were forbidden from actually doing so.

Imagine a scarier version of this

Nevertheless, they sprang into Disney action. Leapfrogging each other, they hopped and skipped, pointing the way to go. With an animated desperation mirroring my own, they led me through the crowd, around an obscure corner to --bless their chipmunk souls-- a men's room. I scooted in and courtesy of the two high-energy rodents did not have to burn my WaterBoggan shorts later that evening.

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Friday, May 9, 2014

Marriotts are odious places, reflective of their humorless, skinflint Mormon overlords: men who put up pictures of themselves in vainglorious popinjay business regalia everywhere on their properties. They are the Oprah of hotel owners. This Marriott is in a pretty place, at least.

Though I do like the clever 'turn on the shower without soaking yourself' porthole they cut in the shower glass.